by Jasmin Kaur
where i am, where i have been
and where i am going
not for a single moment
after all, a beautiful hotel is a temporary stay
home.
that is messy
and honest
and tumultuous
and forever.
please
we climb a red-carpeted staircase that could rival hogwarts
the ceiling is a turquoise sky hanging high above us
and mom’s voice is low
while taara walks ahead and security follows behind
sahaara, what the hell has gotten into you?
i need to do this. and i know it sounds
ridiculous and i know you don’t want me to
but you aren’t the only one who’s hurting, mom.
i have a story, too.
miss dhanjal
“All right, ma’ams, this is your room,” the dewy-skinned porter declares through a handlebar mustache. The journey up to the fourth floor was filled with details about the hotel and its Jiva Spa and nine restaurants and outdoor pool (or pools? I can’t remember). I politely nodded a lot, but didn’t hear much, to be honest. Mom hasn’t said a word to me since we departed from the staircase.
With the beep of a key card, the wooden door glides open and, despite the anvil in my chest, my eyes widen. I catch the light ebbing through the bay windows before I can even take in the ornate queen beds and the rest of the royally decorated room. Mom and our Woman Magazine hosts trail behind as I sprint toward the window to soak up the view. The gray Arabian Sea stretches below, its waters shimmering with sunlight, its tide stirring steadily. Contemplatively.
“You didn’t bring your paints, did you?” Mom startles me from behind. I glance back to see her frustration cool at the sight of the sea.
“No, just the charcoal pencils. They’ll work really well, though. Look at all those grays in the water. . . .”
“As I said in the elevator, ma’ams, room service is available twenty-four hours a day.” The porter unloads my heavy suitcase from his trolley and straightens his mahogany vest. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, no, thank you,” Mom says. “This is wonderful. Too much, really.” She reaches into her purse in search of rupees to tip the porter but Kunal waves her away.
“You’re guests in our city! We pay for everything. Don’t worry.” He hands the porter a crisp bill and he bows his head in gratitude.
“Mrs. Dhanjal, Miss Dhanjal, I hope you have a lovely time at the Taj. Like I said, please don’t hesitate to call the concierge if you need anything at all.” The porter offers another small bow and begins to reverse the trolley from the room.
“Mrs. Dha—” Mom begins, but Vidya discreetly shakes her head. She remains silent until the door closes with a smooth click behind the trolley.
“We have you staying here under the name Anisha Dhanjal. Another safety precaution. Sahaara, I think we named you Divya Dhanjal.”
“Affirmative.” Kunal glances up from his phone. “Divya Dhanjal it is.”
“Divya Dhanjal.” I pronounce each syllable, wrapping my tongue around my new identity. “It has a ring to it. Like the lady in a naatak who secretly poisons her in-laws.”
“Oh my god. It does, na?” Taara giggles. “Excuse me. I’ll just be outside for a moment. Phone call from INN.” Taara sneaks out of the room and I take a seat on a velvet gray footstool resting before the bed. The rich red duvet is woven with intricate gold patterns that I’m tempted to sample for an art piece. From the swirling Arabian Sea to the opulent decor, inspiration has somehow kindled an emotion that isn’t dread or rage.
“Challo, we’ll let you get some rest, but we’re next door in room ten if you need anything. You have our phone numbers, correct?” Vidya asks.
I double-check the contacts on my cell. “Yep, I’ve got ’em.”
“We’re here to make you feel as safe as possible. That means if you hear an unexpected knock on your door in the middle of the night or see something strange outside the window, you’re welcome to call us. No questions asked,” Vidya says. “Sincerely, I don’t think we’ll encounter any problems in this hotel. The Taj takes its security very seriously . . . ever since the 2008 attacks. But you can never be too safe. Any concerns and you dial us, theek hai?”
“Theek aa,” Mom agrees, taking a seat beside me on the footstool. “It means a lot to me that you’re willing to go to all this trouble.”
“This isn’t any trouble, Kiran.” Kunal crosses his arms over his puffed chest as he speaks. “It’s the least that we can do. You’re raising your voice for so many who aren’t heard. It’s just an unfortunate truth of our world that the powerful will go to any length to silence their critics.”
Mom grimaces, something queasy stalking her features when she looks away.
“I have good neeeeews!” Taara sings, shutting the door behind her. “INN is going to set up the interview so that it looks like Sahaara’s calling in from abroad—”
“Just a second,” Kunal interjects. “We haven’t heard whether Kiran is actually comfortable with going through with the interview at all.”
“Oh . . . yes. Right,” Taara mumbles with a deflating fizzle. “It would be set up so that Sahaara is in front of a blank background . . . Anu Shergill would be interviewing her from a different room. They wouldn’t mention anything about her location. And, um . . . they did say that before I called, they had already started tweeting about the segment, so the news is already out. . . .”
“Taara.” Vidya irritatedly clicks her tongue. “Tweets can be deleted. The priority here is Kiran’s comfort.”
Before I can plead my case, Mom speaks up. “I know you’ve already gone to all this trouble, but I don’t want this interview to go ahead. I need you to just cancel it. I know that it’ll upset the news network, but—”
“Don’t worry about upsetting the news network.” Kunal waves away her concern. “Not for a moment. They’ll fill the slot with something else.”
My long nails dig into my sweaty palms and I hold my gaze there while I speak. “You’re all talking about this like I’m not even in the room.” I look up and all eyes are suddenly on me. Mine stare into Mom’s without flinching away. The words leave my mouth as if this courage is real. “I’m going through with the interview. I’ll be safe and I know what I need to say.”
“What you need to say?” she scoffs. “You don’t need to say anything. Everything that needed to be said has already been said.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It hasn’t. And whether you’re with me or not, I’m doing this interview tomorrow. If you don’t want to help me, I’ll figure out a way to get there myself. I’ll call in if I have to.”
The room holds its breath, Taara, Vidya, and Kunal nervous hostages in my standoff with Mom. She closes her eyes, chin tilted toward the glass chandelier as she rubs her temples. Finally, her eyes blink open and she studies me like a puzzle she cannot make sense of. “Sahaara, what on earth do you want to say so badly?”
motherhood is
knowing that your greatest teacher
looks up at you as if you are the world
watching her grow up too quick
and always wanting to cradle her in my arms
being perpetually frightened for her
and in awe of her
forgiving myself for my failings
on more nights than i can count
gathering a love that overflows
too much to carry in a single body
the most complicated journey
made simple by her joy
wishing i was a shield
capable of protecting her
from the ugly might of this world
accepting that the greatest protection
i can offer her must be instilled
within her. not forced, entrusted.
just before sleep steals her away
i ask
are
you mad at me?
mom replies without missing
a heartbeat.
of course i am.
but i’m also proud.
the silence is haunting
in the dead of night
while mom is fast asleep
my heart pounds me awake
the nightmare still lingers
in my heaving chest
in the dream
mom stood behind me
and i screamed
and screamed
and screamed our story
but my words were lost
in a mindless crowd
as if i had spoken
them through water
and he walked past
shameless and proud
and powerful
worshipped by all
and unbothered
by the truth.
sleepless, i check whatsapp
my convo with jeevan
is filled with hourly check-ins
to make sure i’m still alive
but all of my attempts to joke and laugh
and ask about his day have gone ignored
save for an
i’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching.
we’ve got a lot to talk through when you get back
so you better make it home in one piece.
pause. breathe. recollect.
i drift to twitter
by a twisted force of habit
and type in a name that smells
like decomposing flesh
hari ahluwalia
has responded to growing outrage
and sexual assault allegations
for the first time
my heart stops
the article opens
a single sentence
sends shivers down my spine
“this accusation is a baseless lie
from a conniving, calculated woman
who’s simply trying to distract from
all the good work we are doing.”
a rough start
I rub sleep from my eyes and her dark silhouette, framed by morning light, comes into focus. She stands still as pond water by the window, steam billowing from her cup of tea.
I ease myself out of the far-too-comfortable bed and join her.
“Sleep well?” I ask, certain from her peaceful stance that she hasn’t encountered Ahluwalia’s statement yet.
“Not at all.” She takes a sip. We watch as two ferry boats meander past each other, the hour still early enough that they only appear as black outlines against the misty, golden sky.
“How does it feel to be home?” I murmur, leaning against her shoulder.
“This isn’t home, Sahaara. Punjab is home. Was home.” She pauses. “Sometimes it feels like home was stolen from me, too. When . . . other things were.”
“Because you had to leave?”
“Yes, but also because home is familiar. And comfortable. And safe. He took that safety from me when he made me go.”
“Do you miss Punjab?”
“Sometimes, but I wonder if I’d even recognize it if I went back. Aunty Jee always says it’s changed so much. I wonder if the bazaars and parks and fields would still feel familiar. Or if it would feel like . . .”
“The city grew up without you?”
“Exactly.” Her hooded eyes rest on the sea. On these uncommon occasions when she draws down her heavy guards, I leap at the chance to dig deeper, not knowing when the opportunity will arise again.
“Your mom is coming tomorrow.”
“She is.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling good.”
“I mean, how are you really feeling?”
“I really am feeling good, Sahaara.” She smiles. “I feel ready. Like . . . a weight is coming off my shoulders.”
“Did you feel guilty?”
She nods, understanding me without explanation. “I did.”
“But you know you had no reason to, right? You did what you had to do. By leaving.”
She shrugs. “It still hurts, puth. It always hurts.” Anguish creases below her eyes and between her brows, but she doesn’t cry. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“What’s up?”
“Depending on how this meeting with your nani goes—”
“—she’s not my nani.”
“Okay. Fine. She’s not your nani.” Mom sighs. “Depending on how this meeting with my mom goes, I’m thinking that, one day, I’d like to sponsor her to come stay with us. In Canada.”
In compete disbelief, I stagger backward. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Prem said this could be an option—”
“Mom, are you kidding? Why?! Where’s she gonna live? We’re already crowded at Bibi’s house as it is.”
“We can start saving up to move out of Bibi’s house.”
“No. No. Bibi is my family, Mom. And Maasi. And Jeevan. And you. That is my family. My whole entire family. I don’t wanna live with this random person who’s never even been here.”
“Sahaara, I can’t just leave her behind. Not . . . not now that all this stuff is out there in the news. You need to give her a chance. What if—what if she’s changed?”
“It’s cool that you wanna get back in touch with her. That’s up to you and I’m happy you’re doing that for yourself. But she doesn’t mean shit to me. And she never will. Just consider the fact that she abandoned you because of me.”
I regret the word abandoned as soon as it escapes my lips, but the damage is already done. I catch the sting in her eyes before she turns around and gathers something nonexistent from the coffee table below us.
“Go get dressed,” she says with her back to me. “We have a long day ahead.”
wrong move
breakfast is quiet
and my small talk doesn’t help
mom is lost in the catacomb of her thoughts
and i am left outside
sipping orange juice and eating toast
hoping that tonight
i will prove how much she matters.
hoping that she will let me back in.
aasra shelter
“Main teri hoooooon,” croons Dhvani Bhanushali over the radio as we sit idly in a grid of cars and motorcycles. Vidya is driving today and she’s a lot more merciless on the road than Kunal. When traffic gets moving, she speedily cuts off a yellow-roofed taxi before making a whiplash-inducing left onto a side street. Something about her quiet confidence makes me certain that we’re not about to die. Mom, however, clings on to the headrest in front of her for dear life.
“We’re leaving Colaba now,” Kunal says from the passenger-side seat. “The Taj Hotel—where you’re staying—that’s in Colaba. Around the southern tip of the city. We’re heading a bit north. To Dharaspuria.”
“What’s that area like?” I ask.
“Run-down and quite filthy, to be honest,” Taara sniffs from beside me, without breaking from her phone. “Make sure you keep your things close when we get there.”
“It’s a beautiful community, Sahaara.” Kunal shakes his head. “I think Dharaspuria has made a bad reputation from those of us outside, but if you actually get to know the people there, you’ll realize they’re some of the kindest, most giving folks you’ll meet in the city.”
“But she should still watch her purse there!” Taara retorts with a little less confidence.
“We’re in a city of eighteen million people. She should always watch her purse.” Kunal chuckles. “Vigilance is important. No matter where we are.”
Tall skyscrapers and apartment buildings slowly fade into the distance of the gray-white sky behind us. Kunal watches the drifting landscape while Mom falls asleep beside me.
When Mom’s body slowly and inevitably slumps into mine, I appreciate the closeness. For a moment, I consider softening the statement I’ve been saving for tonight. I’ve caused her enough stress as it is. Then I recall Ah
luwalia’s words.
I adjust the floral backpack squished awkwardly between my legs. Before we left the hotel, I hastily packed a water bottle, phone charger, asthma inhaler, interview consent forms, and a little tripod, hoping I hadn’t forgotten anything.
Eventually, we exit the freeway and rejoin a wide road dense with vehicles. Mom’s nap is cut short by an alarm clock of car horns that fill the entire street. The noise does little to move traffic, but a few motorcycles manage to slip through the cracks between cars and taxis, trickling ahead.
“Where are we?” Mom blinks away drowsiness, recalibrating herself in time and space.
“Nearly there, now,” Kunal replies.
Boxy, apartment-like buildings line either side of the road, the paint on their once-white walls stained yellow like well-loved books. As I follow the path of a hefty russet-brown cow lazily wandering the roadside, I’m startled by a knock on the car window. A girl no older than seven with brown hair lightened by dust presents me with a bouquet of roses.
“Didi, only a hundred rupees for all of these,” she squeaks, knocking on the window once more.
“Oh, don’t open the window.” Taara nonchalantly tries to wave away the girl. “The city’s filled with beggars. They’ll never leave you alone if you give them money once.” Mom flashes me a quick, wide-eyed glance and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing: Taara’s classism is repulsive.
“Okay, thirty-five rupees, didi. Just thirty-five for the bunch!” the little girl bargains. The blue eyes of Barbie stare expectantly back at me from her threadbare T-shirt.
Vidya rolls down her window and beckons the little girl toward her. “Here. We’ll take them all.” She practically leaps with joy as she passes Vidya the bouquet and examines the bill with both hands. Traffic starts moving. Vidya throws the bouquet to Kunal while the little girl leaps backward onto the cement divider separating cars on the busy street.